


Lest You Become A Monster

by captainkilly



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kastle Valentine Week, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 14:57:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9825464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainkilly/pseuds/captainkilly
Summary: Karen Page awaits her executioner.Death has other plans for her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kastle Valentine week on Tumblr.

She wasn't raised to love.

Karen Page knows this with the same certainty she reserves for all the other facts of her life. The sun's ascent into bluest morning and its descent into darkest night is one such fact. The tremor in her fingers before she hits her 6am coffee shot after pulling an all-nighter is another. The sound of her heels hitting the pavement in their staccato marching beat is the fact that some would say defines her.

There is a weight to her existence that she's sure is not just the result of gravity. She's too light on her feet to leave much of a footprint. She wanders through lives with quick smiles and a polite voice that never betrays any past. History shudders through her body with every toss-and-turn slumber. Her fingers are steady only with caffeine and adrenaline, so she never applies her make-up in the quiet of her home. Life is a long serial of sacrifices that always come back down to this.

She's almost used to the smell of it. Used to the red staining her skin and lodging itself under her nails without so much as a passing consideration for how long it took her to get her nailpolish just right. Used to the sound the ground makes under the weight of her latest sins. Used to the part of her mind that goes perfectly still in the moment that follows a rattled breath.

It gets easier.

That's the part that scares her most.

It's not just the aftermath that becomes easier with time, though it certainly helps that she's developed some kind of routine in what to do. No. The one thing that gets easier that should never be easy to begin with is this: death comes quicker. Her hands are more sure of their movements with each time. Her eyes adjust to new environments and possibilities so rapidly that she barely has time to blink before she acts. There is a grace and fluidity to her delivery of that moment when their heart stops beating and their mind goes even quieter than the shallow grave she puts them in after.

She was raised in a house full of ghosts.

She does what she can to keep her heart from being haunted, too.

*****

He wasn't raised to be alone.

Frank Castle knows this with the same certainty he reserves for all the other facts of his life. The darkening sky around a pale moon giving way to the first light of morning is one such fact. The tremor in his fingers before he lands a perfect shot is another. The sound of bullet casings littering the floor at his feet is something through which he has become defined to others.

There is a shadow to his existence that he's sure no amount of light can ever fully take away. He's heavy of step and leaves bodies behind in lieu of fingerprints. He wanders through lives and watches as the world tears itself apart in his wake. History shudders through him with every visit to a place he tortures himself to remember. His fingers are steady only with coffee and adrenaline, so he has given up on fixing anything important with them. Life is a long serial of sacrifices that always come back down to this.

He's almost used to the solitude. Used to the lack of breath fluttering against the nape of his neck before pressing down on his pulse in a gentle kiss. Used to the sound of nothing enveloping him the second he opens his eyes in the morning. Used to the part of his mind that whispers an endless mantra about all the things he's lost.

It gets harder.

That's the part that scares him the most.

It's not just the days without them that grow harder with time, though it doesn't help that he has a million reminders of them running through his skull. No. The one thing that gets harder that should never get harder to begin with is this: he can't remember. His hands have forgotten the softness of her skin. His eyes don't recall what it's like to crinkle into a smile at the stories his children used to share. There is a stumble and a fall into dreams of his hands growing slick with blood and the endless cries of his own despair thrumming through his ears.

He was raised in a house that was alive.

He does what he can to keep his heart wide open, too.

*****

She finally managed to wedge a desk inbetween the far-end filing cabinets and the mountain of office supplies. Standing up beats sitting on the floor for hours, even when she has to sacrifice all sense of feeling in her toes for it. (That, or give up on wearing heels. She's not ready for that just yet.) It's her second day of this and the desk already looks like the equivalent of hell on paper.

At least three coworkers asked her to please take the pictures off the wall. She laughed at the first, scoffed at the second, and rolled her eyes at the third. Ellison, bless his heart, just shouted "make sure I don't see that while I'm eating lunch!". Nobody complained about the pictures after she pinned them to a stray corkboard and decorated the other side of the board with motivational posters.

She's quite sure it'd piss off at least half a dozen of the dead criminals on her board to know that they were obscured from view by quotes about teamwork and equal rights. So, naturally, that makes it absolutely perfect. Karen Page is petty that way.

What she isn't, is forgiving. She thinks it's all right, though, because the city itself doesn't exactly deal out forgiveness either. Hell's Kitchen is a tangled mess of shattered dreams and lonely hearts. It's never been the city of love like some other cities are. Even at its sunniest, there are darker shades lurking in the corners of her eyes.

She never stops to think whether the dark is something she just carries with her.

Wilson Fisk learned this the hard way. She sat across the table from him and watched him falter. Watched his visage fall. No more perfect gentleman. No more careful movements or charming manners. At the end of the day, Wilson Fisk was no more than an animal she entrapped in a cage.

She still bears the scars all his rage and panic left on her.

Matt seemed to think that her scars were reasons to forgive her. As if she was to blame for receiving them in the first place. As if she could turn a blind eye to a man whose reach used to extend far beyond any prison Matt put him into. She shakes her head as she pins a photograph of Wilson Fisk to her board. Watches as the light catches the silvery-white threads on her arms. Laughs as she remembers the look on Matt's face that day in the hospital when she told him this was exactly what she had been after. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen gave her a wide berth, after. These scars are not any form of penance.

She's done nothing she needs forgiveness for.

*****

He used to think the world was easy to categorise. As if by some kind of mercy or graceful deity the world would be organised into separate things that made up a single whole. Right now, he thinks the whole is a lie people tell themselves. Something that helps them sleep at night. He knows that all we ever are is alone.

He can't remember the last time he slept for more than two hours at a time.

His lack of sleep comes in handy at stakeouts. Comes in less handy in hand-to-hand combat, which he despises but some reckless kids seem to think it's the way to defeat the Punisher. He is currently in the process of sewing his skin back together. There is a part of him that wishes he could still feel pain. Could still sense more than the needle and thread going in and out, in and out, in and out in their repetitive mantra.

Silently, he thinks himself some kind of masochist for returning to a city that spat him out and fucked him over six ways from Sunday. It's been a while since the Punisher last set foot in this microcosm of solitude and vengeance. Even longer since Frank Castle saw it in the brightest light of day.

The sun beats down on him mercilessly as he finishes up the stitches and rises off the edge of the rooftop. He checks if he's bagged all his weaponry back up the way it should be. Groans when he realises he's out of coffee again. This is just one of those days and he can't very well deal with this city on top of the coffee loss.

He's not sure why he's back at all.

Memories rise to the forefront of his mind unbidden now that he's decided upon coffee. Flashes of bright blonde hair streaking past the edges of his vision. A voice soft as a cat leaping and landing on its feet. Blue eyes like open winter skies meeting him with equal amounts of ice and thaw.

Her name sometimes leaps out at him when he's reading. He saves the words he knows to be good (it's all of the articles, really, though he'll never admit to it) and went back to them enough to spot a pattern. He thought he was mistaken at first. He's still convinced that the universe is playing some kind of cruel joke on him.

He can't ignore the blood pooling at their feet.

*****

She would know him anywhere.

*****

He would know her anywhere.

*****

She watches the scars on his knuckles whiten as he clenches his hands around the cup of coffee. Warily observes the cut on his cheek and the haphazard stitches near his elbow. He shrugged the heavy coat off right before he seated himself across from her. She's almost surprised that there was no skull greeting her after.

He refuses to meet her gaze.

She studiously keeps her own gaze trained on his knuckles now that it's become clear he's not about to look her in the eye. She's not sure what to make of him after all this time. Not sure where they stand, if they stand anywhere at all.

*****

He knows she's watching him. He keeps his gaze trained on the scars that trace her skin. They are new to him, but he can tell they're already old to her. She goes through no effort to hide them, not even when the waitress's eyes linger a little too long on the cobwebs of Wilson Fisk's rage.

She refuses to distance herself from him.

He feels her foot wedge itself between his feet shortly after he scrapes his throat. There is an instant familiarity to her presence. He confesses to himself haphazardly that he has missed her. Dares not voice that thought out loud.

*****

"Why did you come back?"

*****

"Why did you stay?"

*****

His eyes search her face for an answer she knows she can't give. The intensity of his stare is still the same after all this time. The weight of his presence is a gravitational pull she cautions herself she can't get caught into the orbit of.

She knows why she stayed.

Saying it makes it too real.

*****

Her eyes meet his in a way that is less jumpy than the times he saw her last. There is a slight tremble to her lower lip that would be easy to miss if he didn't know her face better than he knows war. The lightness of her presence is a siren's call to a warrior who should long be at peace.

He knows why he came back.

Saying it makes it too real.

*****

When she finally confesses, they're both standing in an alleyway in the dead of night. Her fingers are wrapped around her favourite knife a little too casually. Her stance is a little too certain of victory. There is a body at her feet of which she only knows the crimes and not the name.

Just another day on the job.

On the days she makes the front page, she's taken down a big fish. She keeps her head down in the weeks that follow, because gutting the big fish always makes the little fish think they can finally thrive. She waits the little fish out. They're never on the front page.

*****

When he finally confesses, they're both standing in an alleyway in the dead of night. His fingers tap a steady rhythm of triggers and pauses that never gets nervous. His stance is a little too certain of forgiveness. There is a body at his feet of which he only knows that they deserved this fate.

Just another day on the job.

On the days she makes the front page, he feels as though the air is stolen from his lungs. He frets over her safety in the weeks that follow, because he is convinced one day it'll be one death too many. He doesn't care about the little deaths. They're never on the front page.

*****

"This is why I stayed."

*****

"This is why I came back."

*****

Her heart skips a beat when the low rumble of his voice reaches her ears. She closed her eyes against the inevitable storm that would follow her confession. Too convinced that she would be weighed and measured and somehow left wanting. Too convinced that he would be the only judge and jury she could never walk away from.

Her eyes fly open.

He has stepped over the body and stands in front of her with both hands free of weaponry. She shakes her head. Whispers something into the quiet that forms between them, desperate and alone.

"Are you my executioner?"

*****

His heart skips a beat when he hears her desolation creep out into the edges of her voice. Her face is shrouded in shadows, as though clouds moved in front of the sun while he wasn't paying attention. She stands in front of him as though she expects him to deliver blow after blow to her composure. As though she's convinced that she somehow deserves punishment for her crimes.

He closes his hand around her wrist.

Her pulse races underneath his fingertips. He feels the cold of the blade lurking underneath his wrist. He knows she won't use it. Murmurs something he never planned to say out loud, meeting her desperation with his own.

"If I kill you, I will die."

*****

The sun also rises.

Today is the first day on which she actually believes it long before the trees are illuminated with golden halos. A reporter's life revolves around these moments before dawn. A murderer's life does, too.

She's got the best of both worlds inside of her.

This much she knows: Karen Page wasn't raised to love. She haunts the days of others with promises of retribution and support. There is a gaping hole inside of her chest where her heart used to lie.

She looks at the man seated on the bench beside her.

This much she knows: her heart lies in his hands.

*****

The sun also rises.

Today is the first day on which he actually believes it may be a good thing that it keeps doing so. He's gotten used to these quiet moments before dawn. He's not used to sharing them with anyone.

He's got the best of both worlds beside him.

This much he knows: Frank Castle wasn't raised to be alone. He holds out hope now that they are both alive in the same space and time. There is a gaping hole inside of his skull where his memories used to be.

He looks at the woman seated on the bench beside him.

This much he knows: his memories come alive with her.

*****

There is peace in the gaze they share before they collapse into bed in a tangle of limbs and blankets. A sigh escapes her and lands on the strip of skin above his shirt's collar. He smiles against her hair and breathes in the light.

There are kisses stolen in the early hours of morning and given freely in the dark of night. She curls herself around him and prays to be forgiven. He folds himself into the spaces she opens for him and prays the universe's joke never delivers its punchline.

Blood still pools at their feet.

The traces of their past linger on their skin.

The weight of the Devil's harsh gaze follows in their footsteps.

In these moments before the dawn, none of that matters.

*****

The universe strives for balance, always. We are rarely as alone as we believe ourselves to be. We are never taught how to love, but we do it anyway. This is all we know: how to live our lives, one day at a time.


End file.
